The Panic in the Partners
by GalaxieGurl
Summary: Booth and Brennan worry and stew over a situation they can't control.
1. Chapter 1

The Panic in the Partners

Booth and Brennan had each unflinchingly faced all sorts of dangers over the course of their lives. They dealt with uncertainty, abusive adults, uncaring authority figures, angry criminals, psychotic geniuses and other potential threats. But nothing had prepared either of them for the anxiety of this situation.

They were each tied up in knots. They disregarded a cardinal rule of their married life not to have electronics in the bedroom other than the cell phones their work required. They left his laptop running on the dresser all night long. Each time one of them awoke for the call of nature, they'd slip over to its keyboard, press 'Enter' to awaken it from sleep mode, and peer cautiously at the tiny icon crawling across its screen. Seeing evidence of movement, they'd slip back into bed, relieved for the moment.

Their dreams were agitated. Both woke the other up with unintentional restless attempts to get comfortable and settle for the night. Brennan had a nightmare, thrashing about and moaning softly, "The Gravedigger's abducted her. . ." Booth strong arms encircled her torso in a gentle embrace to calm her fears. He awoke an hour later in a cold sweat, which hadn't happened in several years; dreaming of conversations with a ghostly Teddy Parker aboard a doomed ship wired to explode.

During the previous evening, they'd both appeared outwardly calm all through dinner; discussing Hank's Saturday hockey game, and how soccer practice was going with its season quickly approaching. Max had called twice, asking if they'd heard anything, which of course, they hadn't. Cell phone calls from passengers during commercial flights were still frowned upon by the FAA. Even he, a wily old con man with nerves of steel and a poker face to match, was jumpy.

Brennan's laptop sat open on the kitchen counter, and during dinner, they'd checked the computer screen as regularly as if it had held evidence of the Flyers latest conference game scores, or her editor's critique of a new article on Raymond Dart's 1924 discovery of Australopithecus africanus in Bechunaland.

After an evening of trying, and failing, to focus on anything other than the Flight Aware live tracking application on her computer screen, Brennan closed her anthropology journal and went to bed. Booth checked doors, windows, lights and locks, and followed her upstairs. Both partners connected their cell phone to chargers and placed them in easy reach on the night stands. Kissing one another, they laid back on downy pillows and stared at the ceiling, hoping for sleep.

Finally, at 4:47 am, Booth's cell phone screen lit up and chimed. "We've landed. Off to see the Parthenon. Love you both," the message read. Handing the phone to his wife, Booth smiled broadly and sighed with relief. Brennan did the same, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Thank goodness. She's okay. Intuitively, I know that air travel is statistically far safer than automobile travel, but that didn't make me feel any calmer. Why were we so worried, Booth?"

"We're parents, Bones."

The cause of all this uncharacteristic worry? Christine's sophomore history class was taking a spring break trip to Greece and Crete. No FBI agent authority or Ph.D. forensic knowledge of anatomy could make her eighteen-hour overnight trans-Atlantic flight progress any more safely nor quickly. And so, like all others, her parents waited, and worried. (And in Booth's case, prayed as well.)

 _A/N: This story is a result of one of my kids taking a spring break school trip. Couldn't help but worry, and writing this little story gave me a welcome distraction. Once a momma, always a momma._


	2. Chapter 2

The Kent in the Kate

 _A/N: I decided I'd distract myself from missing our son by concocting some additional travel stories for the Booth_ _ **-**_ _Brennan family._

Christine Booth was once more aboard an aircraft flying high above the Atlantic Ocean, but this time she was not a source of worry for her parents. Primarily because they sat across from her in the first class section of the plane. Her brother Hank was next to her, absorbed in the Game of Thrones battle unfolding on his Nintendo 3DS XL. Normally Booth and Brennan limited their son's video gaming, but a long flight was their rare exception.

"Wow, Mom, these seats are sooo much more roomy and comfortable than the ones in coach. I was so squished between Kennedy and Madison on our class trip to Greece."

Her father chuckled, "They ought to call it 'Sardine' class instead of 'Economy' or 'Coach' don't you think, Monkey?"

"This is definitely better! These seats lay all the way down, completely flat," Christine agreed, as she reclined her chair back.

Booth and Brennan had kept in touch with Inspector Kate Pritchard since Ian Wexler's untimely and violent demise. She had invited them to spend two weeks in Britain at her London flat and her parents' home in Margate on the Kent coast. The latter property had been in her family for generations, a tiny seaside cottage where she'd spent her childhood summer holidays.

Booth had another reason for the trip. He remembered learning his family history at Pops' kitchen table after a seventh grade lesson on the Civil War. Christine had reached this age, and he wanted to show his children more of their ancestry than just the Lincoln assassination. John Wilkes Booth's father Junius Brutus Booth had been born in St. Pancras, London, Great Britain, the son of a lawyer Richard Booth, who avidly supported the cause of American liberty.

BbBbBbBbBb

A few hours later the plane turned over Heathrow, made its final approach and taxied to a stop perfectly aligned with the air bridge. The family gathered their belongings and deplaned. Approaching the baggage dispersal carousels, Booth spotted Cate standing with Liam.

"Pritch!" he called to their long-time friend who waved a hand in greeting and hurried toward them. Looking at the Inspector's son, Brennan caught her breath. Liam's uncanny resemblance to his father Ian Wexler was as striking as Parker's to Booth. He was already a head taller than his petite darker-haired mother. He greeted their American visitors politely, shaking Booth's hand and smiling shyly at Brennan. After lunch at Cate's favorite pub, the group piled into her rented minibus and headed west into the city of London. Their drive to Cate's cottage in Margate took them through the St Pancras district near Kings Cross Station where Booth's forebears had lived. Here they paused to view the Hardy Tree in the graveyard surrounding St. Pancras Old Church. The young author Thomas Hardy had worked here as an architect while writing on the side. One of his projects while studying under Arthur Blomfield was relocating old graves in St. Pancras Churchyard to clear land for a railroad. The occupants were reburied elsewhere, but their tombstones remained. In an effort to handle their abandoned tombstones respectfully, Hardy placed them in concentric rings around an ash sapling in a remote corner of the property. The tree's growth has completely engulfed some of these unvisited gravestones, creating a curious memorial to the long-deceased Londoners who once rested beneath them. Booth considered the unique Hardy Tree a fitting place to tell Christine and Hank the story that Pops had once shared with him at Gram's kitchen table. Liam Pritchard-Wexler and his astounded mother listened as intently as Booth's children.

BbBbBbBbBbBb

"Crikey, Mum, what a story this will make back at school next term!" Liam exclaimed as the group clambered back into Cate's vehicle.

"Liam, that's not polite!" his mother chided.

"Nonsense, Cate, the oddity of the story will remind all his British classmates who John Wilkes Booth is and what he did for the rest of their lives," Booth countered.

Christine and Hank were silent for the first half hour of their continuing trip to the coast.

"Dad, when did you find out that Lincoln's 'ass-ass-i-nin' is part of your family?" Hank asked.

"It's pronounced 'assassin', dorkface," Christine corrected him scornfully. She hadn't decided how she felt about her father's revelation of their family history.

"Christine! Apologize to your brother," Brennan scolded.

"Bones, let it go. It's a lot to digest. Not the most uplifting fact you can learn about your ancestors. It bummed me out for weeks when Pops told me. I nearly punched one of my classmates who teased me about my possible connection to John Wilkes Booth. It never occurred to me it was true. When Pops told me, I was devastated at first. Then he reminded me that what was important was how I lived my life, not how some guy 150 years ago acted. That's why I've tried to defend our country and raise all my children to do the same. That's the best way I know to counter the unsavory legacy JW left behind."

Brennan squeezed her husband's hand. "Pops was right, but Chrissy still shouldn't taunt Hank."

"I'm sorry, Hank," Christine said quietly. "I think I'll be sick the day we study Ford's Theater and Lincoln's assassination."

The two families had afternoon tea at Walpole Bay Hotel in Cliftonside, and then settled into the compact windswept seafront Pritchard family cottage. The waves of Westbrook Bay washing up on the sand were steps away from its front stoop.

"We can't thank you enough for inviting us here, Cate," Brennan thanked their hostess as they ate breakfast there the following morning. "A quiet break like this isn't something Booth and I get very often."

"Well, Temperance, nothing will ever be too good for Sir Seeley and you, after the support you've given me since Ian died. Friends like you are few and far between; I can never do enough to repay you. It's a pleasure to have you here. It's been far too long since we've seen one another." Cate responded warmly.


	3. Chapter 3

Learning to Fly

Booth took a break from raking last year's few remaining dry brown leaves before re-seeding his front yard as a familiar Black Rav 4 pulled into the driveway with practiced grace, stopping precisely in its accustomed spot, which left plenty of room for Brennan's little sports car to maneuver around it into the garage. Parker's grin threatened to split his face as he jumped from his car and ran to his dad. "I did it! I soloed!"

The lower back edge of his shirt was ripped from seam to seam, and he waved the remnant of fabric like a victory flag. "Congratulations, Bub! I see you lost your shirt tail," his father commented proudly. "Who did the honors?"

"Old Wiley Hermann, the line mechanic who gases up my plane. Dad, I found out talking to him today that his father named him for Wiley Post?" Parker exclaimed. Then his expression sobered. "Said his mom was pregnant when Post and Will Rogers crashed in Barrow, Alaska. His dad was a government surveyor doing topographical mapping nearby in 1935, and knew the Army Signal Corps Sergeant who retrieved their bodies."

"Well, Mr. Hermann is named for a true aviation pioneer. Wiley Post set the record for the fastest flight around the world in 1931, and the first solo flight in 1933. He set the solo flight record in 1933 using a radio direction finder and an autopilot device under development for the US Army. He helped develop the first usable pressure suit and discovered the jet stream."

"Gosh, Dad, you sure know a lot about Wiley Post. Did you ever want to learn to fly?"

"It would have been nice, but I moved around so much with my military assignments and deployments that I never got the chance. I think that's something I might do once Christine and Hank are grown and I retire. You know Bones isn't keen on my getting a motorcycle; and she kinda feels the same about small aircraft. Especially after that crash we were in solving a case a few years ago."

At that moment, the front door opened and Brennan stepped out onto the front porch, a watering can in her hand. "Parker! How was your flying lesson this morning?"

"No lesson today! I soloed! Look at my shirt!" Parker informed her joyously.

Brennan frowned slightly. "I've never understood the origin or significance of ruining someone's clothing merely because they piloted an aircraft without assistance. It's a tradition that makes no sense. There is no anthropological precedent for cutting one's shirt to celebrate. In many cultures family members tear their clothing when a loved one dies, to demonstrate grief. But to mark an accomplishment? I've never encountered any historical records of any such practice."

Oh, Bones, it's just a pilot thing!" Parker ran up the front steps, grabbed his step-mother, and swung her around in an impetuous hug.

"I'm very proud and happy for you, Parker. How many more hours do you need to earn your private certificate?"

I got three hours in today, so I still need seven, and a trip involving "one solo cross country flight of at least 150nm total distance with full stop landings at three points and one segment of at least 50nm between T/O and landings;" Parker said in a sing- song voice, parroting the pilot's manual.

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At 5:30 am the following Saturday morning, Booth drove Parker to Waredaca Farm Airport in Brookeville, Maryland, ten miles from their home in Rockville. Once they parked, Booth looked over his son's carefully prepared flight plan. Parker planned to fly to Fairview Airport near Annapolis where Jared Booth was currently teaching at the Naval Academy, have lunch with his uncle, then take off for Martin State Airport near Baltimore where he would spend the night with Rebecca's parents before flying back home the following day.

"You've filed your flight plans with each of these airports, right?" Booth asked, already confident of the answer. Parker took flight safety precautions very seriously, and had grown up carefully avoiding actions which might reflect badly upon his FBI agent father, his well-known attorney mother, Coast Guard officer stop-father Drew, or Brennan.

"Yup, and I packed a contingency kit. I've got a reflective emergency blanket and shelter, water, energy bars, a signal mirror, and Garmin GPS beacon in addition to the plane's transponder. Grandpa and Drew said you can't be too careful, and I know you carry emergency stuff in your truck, Dad. I'm as prepared as I can be. I'm just eager to get aloft!"

"Here, take Christine's cell phone. She is so excited about her big brother's flight, and wanted to help. Just in case something happens to yours, you'll have a back-up."

"Chrissy's a good sister," Parker grinned. "Okay, Dad, this is it! I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

Booth hugged his eldest son tightly, then ruffled his hair. "Godspeed, son. You'll do fine. I'm proud of you."

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The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully, until Sunday evening. Brennan stirred her macaroni and cheese once more, poured it into a casserole dish, and placed it in the oven. She glanced at the wall clock, then descended the stairs to Booth's man cave and paused in the doorway. He'd fallen asleep watching a hockey match rerun. Shaking him gently, she asked, "Have you heard from Parker since yesterday morning?"

"He called last night from Rebecca's parents. He planned to get an early start back this morning, and be home by 3:30. I told him to call and I'd pick him up at the Waredaca airfield. What time is it?"

"Nearly 6 pm, Booth. You don't suppose he had engine trouble," Brennan mused.

By 9 pm Booth was worried. The weather was predicted to be clear all weekend. Where was his son?

Logging on to his laptop, Booth checked the NOAA weather website radar. "Bones, there's a squall over the Ft. Meade area. That wasn't supposed to hit until 3 am Monday morning. Parker should be able to circumvent that, but he's only trained for VFR flights, not IFR yet. I hope he didn't attempt to fly through a cloudburst like that appears to be."

An hour later, his cell phone buzzed. "Dad, it's me. I'm okay but I won't be home til this storm blows over. I saw it coming up when I took off from Baltimore, and thought I'd get ahead of it, but I couldn't so I've landed at Tipton Airport near Ft. Meade to wait it out. If need be, there's a Microtel on the edge of the airport where I can spend the night. I'm sorry to have worried you, but I didn't want to take any chances. I took me awhile to navigate off of my original flight path. It'll be tomorrow morning before I get back. I don't want to chance flying after dark just yet."

"Parker, I'm glad you took the precautions you felt were necessary. You're safe and that's what's important. John F. Kennedy, Jr. wasn't so careful, and you know how tragically that flight turned out. You did the right thing. Get some sleep and I'll meet you at the airfield tomorrow morning."

"He's okay, then?" Brennan asked releasing a breath she'd not realized she was holding. "Booth, thank goodness you raised a son who listened to all your admonitions, even while rolling his eyes. He listened and it paid off."

"Yes, it did, and he called us on Chrissy's phone. That will please her no end. We've been blessed with good kids, Bones."

"Booth, they were fortunate to have caring, responsible parents. You and Rebecca are the reasons Parker turned out the way he did, an intelligent, resourceful young man. It wasn't the luck of the draw."

"You had a hand in that success, too, Bones. Your science and Max taught Parker to navigate when landmarks are obscured by weather. He had a lot of help maturing properly." And he kissed her with a sigh of relief and a tight embrace.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunday Morning Snapshot

Parker joined Booth at the breakfast table to snarf down a few of the home-made cinnamon rolls  
Brennan had baked Saturday night. He was dressed for Mass, but his tie was crooked.

"Slow down, Bub, we aren't going to a fire. Take time to appreciate Bones' artistry. She really outdid herself on this batch," Booth admonished his son between mouthfuls of the delectable buttery-spicy goodness.

"I know, Dad, Bone would say that I need to 'masticate my food thoroughly to absorb more nutrients and energy, give my jaw and teeth a proper workout, facilitate digestion, reduce flatulence and harmful bacteria in my cecum and colon'," Parker recited with a wicked grin.

" _Parker!"_ Booth groaned. "You know I don't like body talk during meals. You're ruining my breakfast!"

"Sorry, Dad. Can you help me with my tie? I still haven't got the hang of it. Why don't girls have to wear ties?"

I guess they'd ask the same about girdles and stockings," his father chuckled.

"What's a girdle?"

"A heavy elastic garment with hooks to hold up their hose that my grandma occasionally threw at me and Jared when we annoyed her," Booth said with a crooked smile, remembering how they'd dash just beyond Grams' reach to avoid a well-deserved swat. "Come on, we've got to get going, or we'll be late for Mass."

Booth straightened Parker's tie. "This looks a lot better than when you first tried tying it; your skill is improving."

"Bones has been helping me. She showed me a shortcut Max taught Russ when he was a kid."

"Of course she did."

"I did what?" Brennan asked, entering the kitchen as she tied the belt of her robe.

"Helped me with my tie. G'morning, Bones."

"You look rested this morning. Did you sleep better?" Booth asked her, with a gentle kiss.

"Yes, and you seemed to as well."

"I always sleep better when I'm at home beside you."

"Okay, you guys, cut the lovey-dovey stuff. I wish I could live here all the time but not when you're always smooching each other," Parker fussed.

A half hour later, The Booth boys entered St. Matthew the Apostle Catholic Church and settled into a pew. Parker said a hasty prayer and sat back on the bench. Booth remained kneeling, and withdrew a slim black leather book from his inner suit coat pocket. It was dog-eared and scuffed from years of use. As he opened it, a small photo slipped to the floor. Parker bent to retrieve it for his father. It was one he'd never seen, showing a lean dark-haired man beside a small boy, posing for the camera with a fishing rod and a small fish. Parker handed it back to his father, who replaced it in the book, returned it to his pocket, crossed himself, and sat back beside him.

"Who's in that picture, Dad?" Parker whispered.

"Shhh, I'll tell you later, the service is starting."

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Once they were back in Booth's SUV, Parker questioned his father. "Tell me about that picture? And where did you get that beat-up old book? Is that a day-timer?"

"No, son, that's Pops' prayerbook. Grams gave it to him when he went overseas during World War II. It was printed especially for soldiers and sailors on very thin paper, so they could carry it with them into battle in a uniform pocket."

"He musta prayed a lot. It sure got worn out," Parker observed.

"I guess he did," Booth responded. "He gave it to my dad when he went to Vietnam, and then to me when I went to Desert Storm. It made me feel like I wasn't so far from home."

"Your dad? What happened to him? How come I've never met him?" Parker had a flood of questions. Suddenly a thought hit him. "Is that who's in the picture? Is that little kid you?"

"Yes, that's your grandfather, Joe." Booth said quietly. He pulled the key out of the ignition, and held it silently. "My dad was a fighter pilot in Vietnam. He lost a lot of his friends during that war. He won a Purple Heart for an injury when his plane's oil line leaked during take-off. He managed to land it before it caught fire, and rescued his co-pilot. Fortunately they were still near the runway. If they'd been over the jungle, he probably wouldn't have been able to set it down intact or survive the crash landing. He was cited for bravery during that action. Since it could have started burning at any point, it took a lot of guts to save his buddy."

"But that's what soldiers do, right, Dad? Never leave a man behind? Why haven't I ever met him? Is he still around? Where does he live?" Parker asked hesitantly. He sensed that talking about this was difficult for his father, but still felt he HAD to know about the man in the snapshot.

"Yes, that's what soldiers do. They see a lot of ugly stuff in combat. It's hard to forget when you come home. When my father came home from the war, he went to work in his uncle's barber shop. He'd worked there part-time during high school, sweeping up, learning how to cut hair. Great-Uncle Edwin was a master barber, and taught my dad all he knew. The two of them could work magic with a pair of scissors."

Booth took a deep breath, and continued, "I think he must have had some pain from his injuries even after they healed. He'd always have a few beers after work when I was little. As time went on, he drank more and more. He missed his friends, he hated the war, and drank to forget. Only it didn't really help. And when he drank too much, he'd get angry. Any little thing could set him off. He wasn't very nice to be around when he was drunk. He wasn't very nice to Mom or me or Jared."

Booth stopped speaking and turned to his son, a sad look in his eyes.

Parker didn't know what to say to comfort his dad, so he stayed silent and just waited.

Booth thought carefully about what he said next. Parker was only ten, and didn't need to know all the gut-wrenching particulars of his abusive childhood. You didn't tell kids all the technicalities of human reproduction when first discussing 'the birds and the bees' and this was a similar situation. He wanted to be honest with his son, but in gradual doses. There would be plenty of time in the future for filling him in the very sad details.

"Your grandfather had trouble coping with things after Vietnam. He had nightmares about the war. He had what we now call PTSD; Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The military didn't offer much help to soldiers back then. Soldiers still have problems when they come back from combat like in the Middle East. There's a lot of adjustment needed when returning to regular life. These days the military has more programs to assist with recovery, but even now not everyone is successful."

"Mom got sick, and passed away. Dad had a really hard time coping with losing her. He lost interest in just about everything. Things got pretty bad. After awhile, Pops took Jared and me to live with him and Grams."

"My dad kept on drinking, which made him even angrier. He moved around a lot, and didn't want any contact with the family. Drinking too much alcohol is very unhealthy and made him sick after so many years. He passed away in a veterans' hospital. The VA contacted Pops when it happened."

"Didn't you ever try to get in touch with him?" Parker asked.

"Son, your grandfather wasn't a very nice person for a very long time. He wasn't a very good father to us. It was easier living with Grams and Pops. I tried to forget about him for years. That wasn't the best way for me to handle it, but I'm not perfect either. We can talk more about this when you are older. Mom took that picture of us on a camping trip once. We'd gone fishing, and I finally hooked a fish. It wasn't very big, but I was very proud of it. My dad could be wonderful when he wasn't drunk. He took me to Phillies' baseball game at Veteran's Stadium when I was about seven. Best day of my life until I had you and met Bones."

"So, I miss my dad, and pray for him. I'm trying to be a better dad for you. Someday when you have kids, you'll understand more about what I'm trying to explain. Does that answer your questions okay for now?" Booth asked, hugging his son as he kissed his tousled head of unruly curls.

"Yeah, Dad, can we go home and make pancakes? I'm starving!"

"Sure, sport. You want blueberry or chocolate chip?"

"Chocolate chip, 'cause Mom never lets me have them!"

Okay, and then I'm going to call your mom about taking you to Supercuts before I drive you home. Your hair is way too bushy for a Booth!"


End file.
